]]>We’d like to present a new Feature Story here at Metro Fiction. Please check the Metro Fiction page for more information about us.

This week, we eavesdrop on a couple as they celebrate their 25th wedding anniversary.

Please enjoy our Feature Story: “Anniversary Dinner” by Janelle Ward

They were out celebrating their 25th wedding anniversary. It doesn’t really matter where. Let’s say it was an Italian restaurant. They smiled at each other over the leather-bound menus and giggled when the waiter popped the Prosecco cork. They toasted to memories: Their first trip to Europe. Their wedding. The births of their children. She insisted they split the Insalata Caprese because it was always too much mozzarella for her. He lovingly mocked her lactose intolerance and agreed, if they could share the mushroom and walnut risotto. She smiled at him fondly but wondered how many hours she’d have to put on the treadmill to work off this dinner.

He insisted on practicing his Italian on the waiter, who was from Ohio. When his efforts were met with perplexity he switched to a description of their 1995 trip to Cinque Terre. Their bruschetta grew soggy, like the conversation. She listened politely along with the waiter and tried not to think about how many hours were left before the meeting she had tomorrow morning. He noticed her attention waning and ended the story in Manarola instead of Riomaggiore.

Over main courses of gnocchi and pasta al pesto they turned to the future. Retirement. Or maybe just a long trip. We could go back to Italy, he said wistfully, gazing into her eyes like a young Marcello Mastroianni. We could get an apartment in Rome and explore the country.

She responded that they’d better learn Italian if they were considering that. Didn’t he recall how difficult it had been to communicate? And how could she possibly work in such an environment? She shuddered at the thought of relying on a rush order smashed in the back of a Fed Ex truck bumping down the Via dei Fori Imperiali.

He argued it was part of the charm. Remember that sweet old lady at the antiques shop? What an adventure it had been to finally purchase that Marino Marini sculpture. And it did arrive, eventually!

She reminded him that the sculpture was a reproduction, and even if they wanted to buy reproductions, she’d have to work at least 20 more years. He leaned in to tell her how much she meant to him. He put his hand on her leg and it vibrated.

Marriage in the mobile phone era. Or rather, marriage to a corporate executive in the mobile phone era. She’d said no calls but had neglected to outlaw texts. She thought he would have accepted these interruptions by now. He hadn’t. She picked up the phone and insisted she was googling the delicious Chianti they were sipping. He knew this wasn’t true.

Dessert menu. Tiramisu. Cappuccino. Grappa. Long sighs. Diminishing eye contact. He thought desperate thoughts about his place in the food chain. She eyed the leftover pasta and wondered if it was worth asking for a doggie bag. He imagined their lifelong romance leaning like Pisa. Crumbling like the Colloseum in 1349. Sinking like Venezia. She wondered how big the mess at the office was and how many hours of sleep she’d get once this dinner was over. Check please, he said. I’ve got it, she responded, patting his arm. Happy anniversary, dear.

Janelle Ward is a Minnesota native and has spent the last 12 years in the Netherlands, evolving from carnivorous student to vegetarian mama. Her day job is in political communication. She’s written a bunch of academic stuff but is most passionate about fiction writing. Her work has been published by The Molotov Cocktail, Litro, Pure Slush, and Crack the Spine. To read more please visit her website – “A Writer’s Passage”.

]]>http://metromoms.net/2014/08/31/anniversary-dinner-by-janelle-ward/feed/0http://metromoms.net/2014/08/31/anniversary-dinner-by-janelle-ward/“Waiting To Be Seen” by Jez Pattersonhttp://feedproxy.google.com/~r/MetroFiction/~3/dawYo3reZAQ/
http://metromoms.net/2014/08/17/waiting-to-be-seen-by-jez-patterson/#commentsSun, 17 Aug 2014 11:00:36 +0000http://metromoms.net/?p=12780We’d like to present a new Feature Story here at Metro Fiction. Please check the Metro Fiction page for more information about us. Sometimes all we want is to be seen. Please enjoy our Feature Story: “Waiting To Be Seen” by Jez Patterson I went at four a.m. because, well, the last time, I’d gone […]

]]>We’d like to present a new Feature Story here at Metro Fiction. Please check the Metro Fiction page for more information about us.

Sometimes all we want is to be seen.

Please enjoy our Feature Story: “Waiting To Be Seen” by Jez Patterson

I went at four a.m. because, well, the last time, I’d gone during the day and had to wait five hours before I was seen. The ache in my kidneys wasn’t so intense that I couldn’t hold off, and I had some painkillers from that previous occasion if it suddenly got worse. I was moving to Luanda in a week and just wanted to know if I had anything brewing down there I should worry about. An X-ray and a urine test would be enough, and Accident and Emergency was the quickest way to get both.

There were two nurses on Reception, drinking mugs of tea. They took my details and I followed the signs. I passed no one, not even a cleaner, and my spirits were pretty high when I entered the waiting area and saw just one other person waiting to be seen.

“Good… morning,” I said, choosing carefully. The elderly are particularly keen on matching salutations to the correct time of day. The old lady returned my smile.

“Good morning to you too.” There were only medical pamphlets, insurance magazines. I’d brought a paperback, but now I’d said something, I could hardly pull it out and ignore her. “Been waiting long?” She shrugged, which I took to mean some, but nothing she couldn’t endure.

You sit in any waiting room and you always play Guessing-Why-Others-Are-There. Two-thirds, you can’t see anything wrong with them. Not even a wince of discomfort, until they remember they should put one in for appearance’s sake. By and large, they resemble passengers in a departures lounge.

In her case, there was no mystery.

“How you feeling?” I asked, nodding down at her leg. The bandage was home-applied because it wound up and down, crisscrossing, and revealing little triangles of purple-blotched skin. Blood had turned it orange in one obvious patch and she’d secured it with a safety pin, which I knew wasn’t de rigueur in a clinic in these days of health and safety.

“It doesn’t hurt,” she said. “Not a bit.”

“You’re braver than me.” I told her about my kidneys. It was often something I reeled off to explain why I needed to drink two litres of water a day and hit the bathroom enough to be noticeable. This time, I just wanted to justify my presence here. Not one of the Departure Loungers.

“Oh, nothing you can tell me about needing bathrooms. Though I think I might need some help getting there at the moment.” I experienced a false alarm, thinking she was going to ask me to help her up, maybe even–god forbid–wee and wipe.

The corridors were still empty: the gentle whirring hum of a floor-polisher somewhere, a door clicking open, closed, footsteps with the wrong rhythm to be an emergency doctor.

“Certainly quiet,” I said. “Hope they haven’t forgotten us.”

She did her little shrug and told me about her cats. Her garden. About the other times she’d fallen ill and needed treatment. Finally, she got onto her leg and how she’d woken up to find it bleeding, not knowing how it had got that way.

I offered some possibilities: some feasible, most silly. Silly enough, I hoped, to make her laugh but she didn’t.

“Lesley Higgins,” the loudspeaker said, and I was surprised they’d bothered using it. Bit lazy really, considering how many we were. “Room One.”

I got up, felt an apology was appropriate.

“Maybe they have different rooms for different treatments.”

“Oh, don’t worry about me,” she said. “Run along.”

“And you…well, hop along. When it’s your turn.” The smile, but still not a laugh, and I left feeling guilty.

I mentioned the old lady when the doctor saw me, give me that much credit.

“Just in case,” I added.

“An elderly lady?”

“Yes. With a bad leg. I don’t think she could walk here.”

The doctor swallowed. “So. You’ve seen her.”

“I…” Yes, of course I’d seen her. The painkillers weren’t the kind to produce hallucinations. At least, that was what I thought–before he told me the rest.

“You’re not the first. There’ve been others. When the room’s otherwise empty. I don’t want to upset you or anything, or have you thinking I’m mad…”

“No. Please. Go on.”

“She came in while there was no one on reception. There’s a bell to press, but she probably didn’t realize. Instead, she walked in and took her place in the waiting room. No one noticed her. Or, if they did, they probably just assumed we knew she was there. But we’re so short-staffed you can wait for hours, even at this time in the morning.”

I didn’t feel the chill then. Not yet. Not until after he’d finished telling me.

“The cleaners came at six and found her. She’d not been dead long and it would have been quick. It was Type 2 Diabetes. All too common, but she didn’t know it. It’s what caused her leg to bruise and bleed. Her heart just stopped.” The doctor looked away, embarrassed, but had probably told the story as many times as I’d explained my kidneys. “I don’t know why she keeps coming back.”

“Maybe just waiting to be seen.” His look asked if the words were cryptic. I hadn’t meant them to be, but they were just the same.

“I was on duty that night,” he said and shook himself free of the memory. “I’ll hurry your X-rays, get you an emergency ultrasound. Nobody should have to wait so long to find things out. You want a coffee? We’ve got a flask in the doctors’ lounge–better than the machine.”

I thanked him and wondered if all the doctors here were so attentive. I doubted it, though we all had it in us. Sometimes we just needed a gentle reminder to come along and sit with us a while. I wished I’d asked about her cats. Insisted she go before me. Maybe the next person would get it right.

Jez Patterson is a British teacher and writer, currently based in Madrid. He has lived in Brazil, Argentina, Greece and the UK. Links to things that have his name at the end can be found at his website: “Some Stories.”

]]>http://metromoms.net/2014/08/17/waiting-to-be-seen-by-jez-patterson/feed/2http://metromoms.net/2014/08/17/waiting-to-be-seen-by-jez-patterson/“Her Hands” by James E. Guinhttp://feedproxy.google.com/~r/MetroFiction/~3/qdaSgDZFfXg/
http://metromoms.net/2014/08/03/her-hands-by-james-e-guin/#commentsSun, 03 Aug 2014 11:00:03 +0000http://metromoms.net/?p=12748We’d like to present a new Feature Story here at Metro Fiction. Please check the Metro Fiction page for more information about us. While enjoying an afternoon in a café, a man falls in love with a guitarist’s hands. Please enjoy our Feature Story: “Her Hands” by James E. Guin With the precision, the premeditation, […]

]]>We’d like to present a new Feature Story here at Metro Fiction. Please check the Metro Fiction page for more information about us.

While enjoying an afternoon in a café, a man falls in love with a guitarist’s hands.

Please enjoy our Feature Story: “Her Hands” by James E. Guin

With the precision, the premeditation, and the control of a spider crawling from limb to limb spinning its web, I can still see her left hand gliding across the flat neck of the guitar. Relaxed, barely moving like the arm of a record player her right hand plucked the guitar’s six strings. She was an artist held prisoner in her own world, but allowing outsiders a voyeuristic glimpse.

Playing Bach with ease, her music floated through the café like the assorted aroma of the various coffee beans and tea leaves in display bins behind the counter. Each movement opened with a melody interrupted by another and yet another. The string of melodies bounced around until becoming intertwined to the point that I couldn’t tell the first from the last. Her entire body rocked with the continuous motion of Bach’s music, but her hands steadily danced along the strings.

I looked around the intimate cafe setting while her music shot webs in the air. A middle-aged man dressed in relaxed-fit jeans and a blue untucked polo shirt typed on his laptop; a young man in black dress pants and a wrinkle free burgundy dress shirt ordered more, more, and more on his iPhone; two young ladies both wearing hippie skirts and flower covered blouses talked about God knows what; and a teenager with a red shirt and khaki pants ate his sandwich and chips and stared out the window into oblivion.

How could anyone not listen to this genius playing guitar in the corner? I thought.

A flurry of notes suspended out of Bach’s final chord seguing into a set of Spanish pieces. Her right hand fingers flung across the strings with passion that hit some primitive spot within my subconscious. The machine-gun-like rhythms took me to a forgotten place where the cultural etiquette of this modern cafe did not exist.

As if to return my mind lightly to the present, she ended with a piece of nontraditional music. Dissonant with raw emotions, it spoke to me like the words of a poem that at first makes no sense, but haunts you until you know the poet’s heart. I understood its disjointed melodies and rhythms.

She held out the final chord until it was scarcely audible and then wrapped her right hand around the neck of the guitar, moved away from the microphone, rose from her chair in the corner, and walked through the kitchen door.

The noisy, unwelcomed silence hit me like the release of a long kiss. I looked around the café. Rubbing his forehead, the middle-aged man stared into his laptop screen; the young man had placed his iPhone on the table and punched at the screen with his index finger; the two young ladies wearing hippie skirts were walking out the door; and the teenager who stared out the window into oblivion was no longer there. Past his empty seat, leaves flew in the afternoon wind and brushed across peoples’ faces as they walked up and down the sidewalk outside of the cafe.

The kitchen door swung open, and she drifted toward me. For a few seconds I couldn’t breathe. Her right hand fingers wrapped around a tea cup handle and her left hand placed under a sandwich plate, she stopped short, placed her food and tea cup on the table next to mine, pulled out a light brown wooden chair, and sat down.

Through my peripheral vision and periodic glances, she did not act like she noticed me. But I felt like she was aware of my presence, like she was listening to me.

Compelled to speak, but not knowing what to say, I could only comment, “Beautiful playing.”

Brushing her left hand across her shoulder blade length hair, she said, “Thank you,” and returned to eating her sandwich.

After she finished eating, I asked, “Have you been playing long?”

And then realized how stupid a question I had asked. Although I didn’t know her exact age, mid to late thirties, I expected someone of her caliber had played guitar forever and at the minimum practiced several hours a day.

She placed her elbows on the table, touched her right hand with her left hand, turned her head toward me, and said, “As long as I can remember.”

Eager to redeem my present state of embarrassment, I said, “You are very good. I love listening to your music. I could listen all day.”

I was expecting a curt thank you and a smile.

“I can tell when someone appreciates my playing,” she said and her chin sank gently into the center of her intertwined fingers.

“How?” I asked.

“I could tell from the opening and closing, and the shifting back and forth of your eyes, the directions your head moved, and the way your body swayed while I was playing,” she said.

Lifting her chin from its relaxed position, she said, “I have to play again.”

She rose from her chair, and her hands lightly pushed it underneath the table. She picked up her empty plate and tea cup, and returned to the kitchen.

With her hand wrapped around the neck of the guitar, she emerged from the kitchen.

The lights in the café seemed to brighten when she sat down to perform. I looked out the windows. It was dark. A new crowd ordered, sat, drank, and ate around me.

On the opposite side a man my age, younger or older, sat listening to the music her hands made. At times he closed his eyes, but when they were open, his eyes shifted back and forth, and followed each movement of her left hand on the fret-board.

James E. Guin’s fiction has appeared inDaily Science Fiction, Romance Flash, Perihelion Online Science Fiction Magazine, and Alternate Hilarities Anthology Volume 1. He received an Honorable Mention in the Second Quarter of the 2014 L. Ron Hubbard’s Writers of the Future contest. James can be found on Twitter, Facebook or at jameseguin.wordpress.com

Kate caught her daughter’s other hand, gave a squeeze. “Come on Ben. Remember how much fun we all had at the San Diego Zoo?”

Her husband smiled. “Overruled as usual.”

Moira bounced on her heels, pulled her hands free. “I want to ride that one. I was feeding her grass. She’s really sweet. She liked it when I tickled her nose.”

Ben hesitated. “We’ll see if she’s available.”

“She is! She’s got a saddle. I’m gonna be a real life cowgirl.”

Kate smiled as Ben leaned close to her ear. “Not any cowgirl I’ve ever seen.”

The grizzled man who took their money was happy to untie the harness and pull Moira’s mare from the fence. Moira motioned to her mother, “Lift me up!” Kate smiled, nodded. Together they walked across the paddock’s soft dirt.

With each step Kate’s heart raced. Moira may like these beasts, but Kate would never get used to them. Their size alone left her trembling. Moira walked to the animal’s head. Grass tumbled off the sides of her outstretched hand. Kate held her breath. It didn’t matter that the beast’s leathery lips plucked gingerly at the blades, there were still three colossal horns pointed right at what she loved most.

“Pet her, Mommy!”

With a forced smile, Kate obliged. The Triceratops turned at her touch, fixing her with empty brown eyes. Kate repressed a shiver. She could never stop equating cold-blooded with soulless. The dinosaur’s leathery musk tickled her nose. Fighting the urge to sneeze, she lifted Moira into the saddle. She jumped aside as the merry-go-round style automatic walker lurched forward. With the mechanism squeaking and thumping behind her she made her way back to her husband.

“Seriously like the biggest waste of a technological advance ever…”

Her husband laughed. “I’m not sure I’d go that far… but you’d think they’d have some better uses. I mean, if you’d told me our kids would be riding dinosaurs at the pony rides…”

Kate leaned on the fence, watched her daughter sway and bounce. She scanned the circle of plodding trikes. Six faces echoed her daughter’s bliss. Maybe the technical advances were worth it after all.

Next to her Ben sighed. “Were you into them as a child? Dinosaurs?” He didn’t wait for Kate to answer. “I was. Couldn’t get enough. I had this collection of little plastic figures. Knew all their names. Every one.” His eyes unfocused.

Kate looked back at their daughter. “I guess there’s always been a connection between kids and dinosaurs. Although this real a connection is a bit new. Thank goodness they only cloned the herbivores!”

A scream tore across the paddock. Kate spun around. Loose knots of fair goers’ faces echoed her shock. The background buzz of an afternoon outing morphed into a swelling panic. Bystanders nearest a large tent scattered into the midway. Kate stood on tip-toe. The tent’s entrance flapped open.

Bang!

Kate jumped.

Ben gasped. “God! Was that a gun?” The tent buckled. A threadbare young man, not more than twenty, threw himself out the opening. He hit the ground, rolled. Three triceratops, nostrils flared, eyes flashing white, tore through the spot he’d just vacated. Another man followed. Kate watched, transfixed with morbid focus.

Something flashed in his hand. For a second he paused, arm outstretched. She memorized his face, his dirty grey t-shirt that read “Cold Blood. Warm Heart. Dignity for Dinosaurs.” He flung his arm forward. Smoke trailed out in an arc.

Bang!

The sputtering ball he’d launched exploded in a cloud of smoke and dirt. The dinosaurs panicked toward the paddock. Kate’s blood turned cold.

To their right, wood splintered, no match for giant horns.

Kate screamed. “Moira!”

She spun back toward the arena. Scanning the jostling beasts she searched for Moira. The trikes were a mismatch of movement, turned around and backward, straining against the thin leather and chain. The auto-walker squealed and jerked, pulled in seven directions at once. On the far side Moira’s mount tugged with the rest. The loose trikes were in the arena, circling the riders, inciting riot.

Kate ran. She was hit from the side. Another parent knocked her to the ground, rushed on. Ben raced past. A charging escapee drove him back.

“Daddy!”

The noise of chaos faded into the background—Kate could hear each of her daughter’s sobs.
A high-pitched rending of metal and her heart nearly stopped. Almost as one the harnesses gave.

Wood splintered.

A trike crashed through the far fence. Like the first crack in a dam giving way to a waterfall, the others followed. On her feet again, Kate ran. Desperate, she followed the bobbing head of her husband and the screams of her daughter. She charged through the fair, past stricken faces and bright banners.

Pounding feet took her beyond the last of the tents into open fields. The tightening of her chest had nothing to do with the hard sprint . There was nothing left to stop the stampeding triceratops. Kate pumped her legs, terrified.

She caught Ben, his face red, breath loud. She didn’t stop, didn’t dare. She couldn’t see the trikes anymore. Stumbling she crested a ridge, almost fell, staggered toward a copse of trees. They were gone. She’d lost them.

Lost Moira.

Gasping and sobbing she pushed through low dense branches. And froze, locked in the big-eyed gaze of a triceratops.

“Mommy!”

Shaking head to foot, Kate stepped to the creature’s side and clutched at her daughter’s outstretched arms. Warm brown eyes watched her every move. “Oh thank you, thank you.” Kate sobbed.

Moira smiled. “Mommy, take off her saddle.” Kate fumbled with a buckle, then two. Leather thudded to the ground. Her hand slid down the warm, thick neck. Moira waved. “Bye-bye.”

The animal snorted, turned, and was gone.

E. Lillith McDermott writes science fiction, fantasy, and horror for young adults and adults who wish they were young. Her work can be found in the anthologies “Under the Stairs” and “Short Sips: Coffee House Flash Fiction”. She lives in the sleepy Midwest where she periodically embarrasses her children by frightening their neighbors.

]]>http://metromoms.net/2014/07/20/fairground-rides-by-e-lillith-mcdermott/feed/6http://metromoms.net/2014/07/20/fairground-rides-by-e-lillith-mcdermott/“Time Out” by Nicola S. Heightonhttp://feedproxy.google.com/~r/MetroFiction/~3/-Ze3IdyN7kg/
http://metromoms.net/2014/07/06/time-out-by-nicola-s-heighton/#commentsSun, 06 Jul 2014 12:00:08 +0000http://metromoms.net/?p=12742We’d like to present a new Feature Story here at Metro Fiction. Please check the Metro Fiction page for more information about us. Sometimes a time out can make a dramatic difference. Please enjoy our Feature Story: “Time Out” by Nicola S. Heighton It was probably the most beautiful mirror I’d ever seen. Enormous, tinted […]

]]>We’d like to present a new Feature Story here at Metro Fiction. Please check the Metro Fiction page for more information about us.

Sometimes a time out can make a dramatic difference.

Please enjoy our Feature Story: “Time Out” by Nicola S. Heighton

It was probably the most beautiful mirror I’d ever seen. Enormous, tinted yellow and with a frame that looked like branches tangling around it from a tree at the bottom centre. I wanted it, of course. I may have only been a child at the time, but I knew beauty when I saw it. “Can we go and look over there?” My voice was lost in the general din.

“Who do we have left to buy for?” Mum had hold of my hand, while Dad stood on the other side of her, clicking a cigarette lighter that refused to work.

“Dozens of people,” he replied, his voice made lispy by the cigarette, “and the shops will be closed in an hour.”

Jimmy was screaming and shouting in his pram. The pram wheels sloshed through brown snow, throwing drops of freezing water at Mum’s legs and making her tights dirty.

I pulled the hem of her coat to stop her from walking. “Mum! Mum!”

“What is it, Dana?” She turned and pulled my hand away. Even then I knew how tired she was, but I was tired too. We had been walking around for hours.

“I want to look at the mirror in that shop.”

“Maybe later.”

“Please!”

Dad started reading names off the list in his hand while he continued to click the lighter. They had lots of presents already. None of them were for me.

“I want it for Christmas,” I said, but they didn’t hear me. Even if they had they wouldn’t have listened. Mum started pointing at names on the list in Dad’s hand. Neither of them was watching me and I knew that they would be discussing the list for a few minutes at least. So I turned and ran for the shop across the road.

It was then that I heard it. It was a sound like the crash of cymbals and the hiss of radio static mixed together. Loud but a long way away. I turned back and found myself alone in the middle of the road. There was nobody else there at all. Mum and Dad were no longer there, nor was the newspaper stand. While the shops stood where they had been, their fronts were nameless, their windows empty. Only the hood of Jimmy’s pram remained as it had been. The pram and Jimmy had disappeared, leaving the hood floating in mid air. There was no snow, and only a faint whispering sound like hundreds of hushed voices. I felt like I could almost hear what they were saying, but the words were gibberish.

“Mum?” I said. My voice echoed back at me. I turned left and right and all around. “Mum?” There were more empty windows, more blank shop fronts, on the other side of the road. Only one object remained: the mirror. Except it was different. The trunk of the tree was wider, the branches had foliage where before they were bare. I caught sight of my reflection in its surface, but I stared back at myself with unblinking, empty eyes. My reflection’s smile was wide, like a school photo, but I wasn’t smiling.

“Hello, Dana.”

I flinched and turned. There was a man standing beside me. He crouched down to be level with me and his whole face creased into a smile. I remember that he had a moustache and looked very old. Something about him reminded me of my dad, but it wasn’t him. My dad had blue eyes, while this man’s eyes were brown like mine. The same colour as my mum’s and Jimmy’s eyes.

I looked him up and down. “Who are you?” He was wearing a dark suit and a long coat that brushed the ground as he crouched. There was a smell around him, like the kitchen just after the floor had been cleaned.

“I’m not allowed to tell you,” he said, shaking his head. He stood up and looked around. “You know, I almost remember this place. Maybe I do remember it. Or perhaps it’s just the way it’s been described to me.” He shook his head and held his hand out to me.

I took it. I don’t know why I trusted him, but he was the only other person in the world and I had to trust someone. I wasn’t old enough to look after myself. He started walking me back to the side of the road that I’d come from.

“Where did everyone go?”

He chuckled. “I don’t think I remember them. I couldn’t see them, after all. Or maybe I’d be too tempted to change other things.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m only allowed to change one thing. Just one thing from a whole lifetime.” We reached the side of the road and he crouched down beside me again. “Do you know how difficult it is to choose just one thing, Dana?”

I shook my head as I sat on the curb.

“Shall I tell you a secret?” He grinned and I smiled back and nodded. “I don’t really remember choosing,” he said, “but I’m glad I chose this.”

I heard the noise again, the static and cymbals. People were all around me and Mum and Dad were shouting at a man in a car. He was shouting back and waving his arms and pointing at me. I looked all around but the man with the long coat and the moustache was gone. Jimmy was screaming in his pram and the snow was back on the ground and making me wet. The world was back to normal.

I didn’t mention the mirror again. I couldn’t shake the memory of myself staring back from its surface, more like a photograph than a reflection. For Christmas that year I got a guitar and some dresses, and although I never learnt to play the guitar, it became Jimmy’s lifelong passion after it was passed down.

I never saw the man with the long coat and the moustache again, or heard the noise that sounded like cymbals and static, but I remember the whole episode clearly to this day. Mum and Dad always said that my clumsiness saved my life. They said that it was only by chance that I slipped at the side of the road. But I know I didn’t slip.

Nicola S. Heighton lives in Cornwall, England, where she spends her days working as a mathematics tutor and her spare time telling stories to her friends and family. Her general thoughts about writing and links to her published work can be found on her personal blog.

]]>http://metromoms.net/2014/07/06/time-out-by-nicola-s-heighton/feed/3http://metromoms.net/2014/07/06/time-out-by-nicola-s-heighton/“Karen and the Philanthropist” by Lucinda Kempehttp://feedproxy.google.com/~r/MetroFiction/~3/q8FC7YPzrg4/
http://metromoms.net/2014/06/22/karen-and-the-philanthropist-by-lucinda-kempe/#commentsSun, 22 Jun 2014 12:00:30 +0000http://metromoms.net/?p=12734We’d like to present a new Feature Story here at Metro Fiction. Please check the Metro Fiction page for more information about us. Karen attempts to find a use for her homemaking skills in the workplace. Please enjoy our Feature Story: “Karen and the Philanthropist” by Lucinda Kempe Karen reviewed the job advert in Craigslist. […]

Karen reviewed the job advert in Craigslist. Was it a fluke? “Major international philanthropist in need of a right hand personal assistant, $125K plus bonus, New York City and the Hamptons. ” She thought about her twenty plus years as a mother with her undeniably hard-working but high-maintenance husband and his immigrant family who wanted everything, including the children’s baptisms, their way. Then she laughed and composed her letter.

Now why would you want a left when asking for a right? Realistically, you need ten. But ten at $125K each would be pricey. I’m available for half that.

I’ve spent twenty years as a mom to two children and as a wife to a high-maintenance European, an underpaid job that requires the patience and perseverance of Gandhi. In 2007, I returned to the work world as a legal secretary for an Estate and Trust attorney. The position ended with the collapse of the lending industry. Sadly, I was guillotined.

If you are an M.I.P., I need work that pays. The skills I’ve developed are worth a fortune, and I’m not asking for a fortune. If you are not an M.I.P., good luck with the hand job.

References available upon request.

Thank you for your immediate consideration.

Very truly yours,

Karen Allenia

LH:kf

Just as she finished typing, Karen’s husband passed her desk.

“Some people have to go to work,” he said, stopping to peck her cheek.

She pecked him back, opened Outlook Express, clicked paste and sent the letter with her resume.

*****

Justine sat barefoot at a mahogany desk in the Trump Tower sipping her Dean and Deluca double-shot latte. She adjusted the speaker on her desk, and the sound of Wagner’s Prelude and Leibestod flooded the room. Then she returned to scanning her iPad mail. The “Dear M.I.P.” heading in the subject line caught her eye. She laughed and typed a reply.

Dear Karen:

What a witty approach to getting a job. I didn’t know what to expect from Craigslist. Loathe employment agencies. They usually send social climbers who arrive in cheap shoes.

Based on the spunk of your letter, you get an interview.

My private cell is (212) 899-9912. Call me, leave a message and we’ll set it up.

Salute!

M.I.P.

*****

“Call me, Jussi,” Justine said, “Please, have a seat.” She gestured to a ladies parlor chair.

“Nice to meet you, Jussi,” Karen said.

“I’m a bit . . . short-handed.” Justine said and smiled. She tapped on Karen’s resume. “You got my attention, but you have less than ten years’ actual employment history. Why should I hire you?”

Karen shifted on the chair. “I’m funny?” She eyed the logjam of papers and books piled on top of Justine’s desk. “Seriously, I’m a great organizer and . . . .” She noted a pair of five inch, red-leather pumps near a stack of binders on the floor. “Christian Leboutin! I love those, but how can you walk in them?”

“Leboutin cost a fortune. What are you wearing?”

Karen smiled sheepishly. “Birkenstocks. I have bunions!”

Justine rubbed the bunion on her right foot with her left. She rummaged in a drawer. “Damn it, I need a pen!”

Karen pulled her pen from her bag and handed it to Justine.

“A Pentex Roller Ball, 0.7 nib? My favorite! How did you know?”

Karen grinned. “Can’t write without a good tip.”

Justine smiled and scribbled on Karen’s resume. “Hired!”

Karen’s face radiated shock. “For real?”

“Reading between the lines is my métier and your letter screams ‘desperate,’ but I’m. . . .” Justine surveyed the unattended stacks of letters, files, binders and the red shoes. “I’m a bit desperate, too. And, I get husbands. My fourth is sent on regular trips to Bahrain to research socio-economic mores.”

The notes of the Prelude and Liebestod swelled.

“Jussi, may I make one suggestion?” Karen asked.

Jussi nodded.

“Lose the Wagner.”

The two women smiled at one another, cementing their new alliance.

Lucinda Kempe lives in an Arts & Crafts style house on Long Island where she exorcises with words. Journal of Compressed Creative Arts, decomP, Corium, Every Day Fiction and Metazen have published her work. She completed conferences at Southampton Writers Conference with Roger Rosenblatt 2010, Frederic Tuten 2011, and Kim Barnes 2012. She attended The New York Writer’s Institute for a nonfiction class with Jim Miller (summer 2013) and has worked as a private student with the poet Larry Fagin since 2012. Presently, she is in a graduate humor class (Stony Brook) with Patty Marx.

]]>http://metromoms.net/2014/06/22/karen-and-the-philanthropist-by-lucinda-kempe/feed/3http://metromoms.net/2014/06/22/karen-and-the-philanthropist-by-lucinda-kempe/“Enjoy Your Meal, Sir?” by Christine Suttonhttp://feedproxy.google.com/~r/MetroFiction/~3/nxkEvjAaCUQ/
http://metromoms.net/2014/06/08/enjoy-your-meal-sir-by-christine-sutton/#commentsSun, 08 Jun 2014 12:00:16 +0000http://metromoms.net/?p=12724We’d like to present a new Feature Story here at Metro Fiction. Please check the Metro Fiction page for more information about us. An unexpected diner in the restaurant where Laura works has her cooking up the perfect dish. Please enjoy our Feature Story: “Enjoy Your Meal, Sir?” by Christine Sutton As the rich, dark […]

As the rich, dark dome slid from the oven Laura sighed with relief. She’d followed the recipe exactly but until you saw the finished cake you could never be sure. And doing it for real, in an actual restaurant, felt very different from night school. Now it wasn’t just something to keep her amused when Barry was working late; it was her livelihood. She couldn’t wait to see his face when she showed him her first paycheck next month. He was going to be so proud. Leaving the cake to cool, she started on the filling.

“The Hunk is back,” announced Amy, breezing past with a tray of dirty plates.

“The guy I told you about,” Amy said. “He comes in every Friday with a different girl. Tonight it’s a redhead, last week was a brunette. They’re always gorgeous but then so’s he. George Clooney meets Harrison Ford.” She heaved an ecstatic sigh.

“You shouldn’t even be looking at other men. You’re a married woman,” Laura said. “Newly married at that; what would Darren say?”

Amy gave a crow of laughter. “No harm looking, Laura, long as you don’t touch. Just as well, really, or Paulo would be in intensive care by now, the looks he gives you. Oh, don’t tell me you haven’t noticed?” she scoffed, seeing Laura’s disbelief. “You should be flattered. I certainly wouldn’t kick him out of bed!”

“Amy!” Laura chided, laughing despite herself. As her friend disappeared back into the restaurant, Laura couldn’t resist a glance across the kitchen at the young Italian sous chef. There was no denying Paulo was extremely handsome but as for being interested in her…

As if aware of her scrutiny, Paulo glanced round. Her heart skipped; the look in his eyes was pure puppy dog devotion. Flustered, she turned away and tried to focus on the dish she’d started earlier, her chocolate mint mousse.OrHeaven on a Spoon, as Barry called it. She was energetically beating egg whites when Amy came barging back through the swing doors.

“You’ll never guess,” she squeaked. “He’s just asked meout! I was clearing away their starter when the girlfriend nips to the ladies. Next thing I know he’s showing me two tickets for Wicked and inviting me to see it with him next week. I won’t go, of course,” she added piously.

“I should think not,”Laura exclaimed hotly. “The girlfriend barely out of earshot and he’s coming on to you? The man’s an utter lowlife.”

Dropping the whisk, she grabbed Amy’s arm and marched her toward the swing door.

“Okay,” she said, easing it open, “I want to see this creep for myself. Where is he?”

“In the alcove, with the redhead,” Amy said, pointing to four discreetly screened bays on the far side of the room. “The one nearest the potted palm.”

Laura’s first thought was that she must be looking at the wrong alcove and that the man Amy was talking about would be sitting in the next one along – except that the next one was empty. Doing a smart about-turn, she marched back into the kitchen.

“What’s up?” Amy demanded, as Laura began whisking with all her might. “Do you know him or something?”

“You could say that,” Laura snarled. “He’s my fiancé.”

“Your fiancé?” Amy echoed.

“Yes, we were supposed to be doing the I take thee, till death us do, bit next year. Well, as far as Barry’s concerned, the death part might be coming a bit sooner than expected.”

“No, hang on,” Amy panicked, flapping a distracted hand, “p’raps I got it wrong and it’s just a business meeting. Business contacts are allowed to look like Nicole Kidman, aren’t they?”

Laura shook her head. “You’re not a business contact but it didn’t stop him coming on to you.” She stood a moment, thinking. “Have they ordered their main course yet?”

“Yes, Lobster Thermidor and Steak au Poivre, why?”

“Because when it comes to dessert I want you to recommend the mousse. Tell him it’s tonight’s special. Because believe me, it will be…”

From her vantage point behind the potted palm, Laura watched Barry spooning up the last of his fluffy chocolate mint mousse. She had to admit Amy was right. A month off his fortieth birthday he still retained the movie star looks and muscular physique that had attracted her three years ago. As he ran the spoon around the rim of the bowl, she made her move.

“Enjoy your meal, Sir?”

“Fabulous, thanks,” he said, the spoon halfway to his mouth. “My compliments to…” The words died on his lips as he saw who was speaking. “Laura! What are you doing here?”

His expression was so comical she almost laughed. “I work here, Barry,” she said coolly. “And you?”

He had the good grace to blush. “Oh, uh, we’re working too.”

She arched a cynical eyebrow. “Oh, I’m sure.”

“No, it’s, umm, not what you think,” he stammered. “Miss Messiter here, she’s…”

“I can see what she is,” Laura cut in crisply, ignoring his companion’s indignant protest. “Tell me, Barry, what did you think of the mousse? I made it especially for you.”

“The mousse?” he said, clearly relieved to be getting off so lightly. “It was, umm, delicious. Yes, had quite a bite.”

“I was worried about serving it, to be honest,” Laura went on. “I had a small accident, you see. Amy here was telling me about this cheating, low-life customer who’d asked her out right under his girlfriend’s nose and, well, something sort of snapped.”

She opened out the snowy white napkin she was holding to reveal the fragments of a broken wineglass. Slowly, Barry’s gaze shifted from the shards in her palm to the tiny sparkling slithers clinging to his spoon. His eyes widened.

“Oh, my God,” he croaked. “You didn’t, you couldn’t.”

Smiling sweetly she gathered up the folds of the napkin. “Bye, Barry dear. I don’t expect I’ll be seeing you again.”

Turning on her heel, Laura walked swiftly back to the kitchen.

“Are you mad?” Amy hissed, darting in after her, “powderedglass? You realize you’ll be sacked? He could even die.”

Laura looked baffled. “Who said anything about powdered glass? I just put a couple of ground-up clear mints in his dish. Of course,” she added with a wink, “worrying about it might give him a few sleepless nights. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Amy, there’s a certain sous chef I’d rather like to speak to.”

Christine Sutton lives in south-east England. Her first story, A Stranger Calls, was published in Woman’s Own magazine in 1993. Since then, her stories and articles have appeared in publications in the UK, America, Canada, S. Africa, India, Australia, New Zealand, Bahrain, Switzerland and Scandinavia.

]]>http://metromoms.net/2014/06/08/enjoy-your-meal-sir-by-christine-sutton/feed/14http://metromoms.net/2014/06/08/enjoy-your-meal-sir-by-christine-sutton/“Dress for Duress” by Laird Longhttp://feedproxy.google.com/~r/MetroFiction/~3/iKr4FDih7xo/
http://metromoms.net/2014/05/25/dress-for-duress-by-laird-long/#commentsSun, 25 May 2014 12:00:57 +0000http://metromoms.net/?p=12717We’d like to present a new Feature Story here at Metro Fiction. Please check the Metro Fiction page for more information about us. Ruth’s mother-in-law just wants to drop by for a short visit. Please enjoy our Feature Story: “Dress for Duress” by Laird Long When Clyde informed Ruth that his mother ‘wanted to […]

]]>We’d like to present a new Feature Story here at Metro Fiction. Please check the Metro Fiction page for more information about us.

Ruth’s mother-in-law just wants to drop by for a short visit.

Please enjoy our Feature Story: “Dress for Duress” by Laird Long

When Clyde informed Ruth that his mother ‘wanted to drop by for a short visit,’ her resulting scream could be heard clear across town. The last time ‘Mother’ Agnes had dropped by for a short visit, she’d occupied the Crandell house for three solid weeks. The lash marks from her insults were still healing in Ruth’s mind.

Because when Agnes wasn’t constantly grousing and griping about this and that, him and her, and ‘them on the telly,’ she was saving her best shots for her daughter-in-law. Particularly as it related to Ruth’s wardrobe.

Agnes had once worked in the ‘ladies wear’ section of a department store in a previous century, and as a result, she fancied herself an expert on women’s fashion. Her fashion sense actually ran more along the lines of Queen Victoria’s than Jean Paul Gaultier’s, but that didn’t stop her from telling Ruth just what she was wearing wrong, and how.

Ruth felt, and told her husband, that there should be a toxic warning symbol tattooed on the woman’s lips.

“Oh, it’ll be fine, I’m sure,” Clyde reassured his wife, patting her shoulder. “She’s probably mellowed quite a lot since her last stay.”

“How much do you want to bet?” Ruth inquired. “She’s like fine wine, I suppose? Only her cork’s been off for years, and the older she gets the more vinegary she gets.”

******

“That outfit’s a little … off-season, don’t you think, dearie?” Agnes offered without asking, as soon as she arrived.

Ruth glanced down at her t-shirt and shorts, then smiled stiffly. “And how was your trip, then? Bus didn’t overturn, hmmm?”

Agnes directed her son to take her three suitcases, two hat boxes, and one hissing pet transporter into the spare bedroom – the room Ruth had suggested they brick up after the woman’s last visit.

Agnes sniffed the air. “Haven’t got a gas leak, have you, dearie?”

“How long do you think you’ll be staying?” Ruth gritted.

Agnes tidied her hair in the hall mirror. Then she dusted the mirror with one of the tissues she kept permanently rolled up her sleeve. “Oh, I don’t know, dearie,” she eventually responded, her face pruning up as her eyes swept over her daughter-in-law from head-to-toe. She looked over at Clyde and smiled. “I try to spend as much time with my loved ones as I can these days. I’m not getting any younger, you know.”

And you won’t be getting any older, either, Ruth thought to herself, if you park it for more than one week, lady. I’ll see to it personally.

******

The next day was Sunday, and Ruth was already plenty in need of the Lord giving her strength. But, of course, Agnes had to tag along to church with her.

“You know that blouse doesn’t go at all with those pants, don’t you, dearie?” she commented, as Ruth and Clyde stood around in the hallway waiting for her to get her hat on. “The colours are all wrong.”

“Women really shouldn’t wear pants,” Agnes went on. “Unless they’ve got something to hide, of course.” She glanced at Ruth’s rather stumpy legs. “A woman should dress like a woman, I always say, not a man. You really should try to keep your wife out of your wardrobe, dear,” Agnes said to Clyde, reaching up and pinching one of his chubby cheeks.

He grinned at his mother, then regarded his wife much as a Pompeian once regarded Vesuvius. “Uh, I-I’ve made reservations at the fanciest restaurant in town for dinner tonight,” he said hastily. “For my two special ladies.”

Ruth snorted, reaching into her purse to make sure her blood pressure medication was still there.

******

Ruth strapped herself into one of her ‘knock ‘em dead’ evening gowns for dinner that night. A string of pearls, high heels, and a subtle dusting of make-up set her off to fabulous effect. Or so she and her husband thought.

“Oh my, is that what you’re wearing, dearie?” Agnes remarked. She wrinkled her nose, then wrapped it in an omnipresent tissue and blew.

“What’s wrong with it?” Ruth wanted to know.

“Well, nothing, I suppose – if we were going loitering about street corners looking for men. But for a formal dinner engagement …?” She raised her eyebrows. “And black is a slimming colour, now isn’t it? And, really, it’s a little too late for all that, don’t you think, dearie?”

]]>http://metromoms.net/2014/05/25/dress-for-duress-by-laird-long/feed/1http://metromoms.net/2014/05/25/dress-for-duress-by-laird-long/“A Perfectly Normal, Ordinary Life” by John B. Rosenmanhttp://feedproxy.google.com/~r/MetroFiction/~3/vM4QslrgnCE/
http://metromoms.net/2014/05/11/a-perfectly-normal-ordinary-life-by-john-b-rosenman/#commentsSun, 11 May 2014 12:00:32 +0000http://metromoms.net/?p=12704We’d like to present a new Feature Story here at Metro Fiction. Please check the Metro Fiction page for more information about us. Jimmy’s wife has a secret. Please enjoy our Feature Story: “A Perfectly Normal, Ordinary Life” by John B. Rosenman She was letting down her hair so to speak, just being herself […]

She was letting down her hair so to speak, just being herself when Jimmy came home unexpectedly from work. She hurried to put things back, but it was too late. He opened the door and stood staring at her. Just staring.

Finally, he closed the door behind him and came toward her. His gaze never left the glistening gold wings that fanned the air of the living room.

“Ariel,” he said, “what are those things on your shoulders?”

Later, she berated herself for not thinking quicker on her feet. She could have said they were wing attachments she’d made for Cassie’s Christmas school play. A stretch since Cassie was only five and the wings were so big. But if she’d told him sincerely enough, Jimmy would have believed her.

But she’d drawn a blank and simply shrugged. “My wings.”

His mouth fell open. “Your wings?”

Perhaps she’d been tired of hiding the truth and wanted someone—especially her spouse—to know it. Jimmy had raised his hand to touch her wings, then stopped.

“They look real.”

Again, she could have denied the truth and fabricated some story. Instead, she said, “They started growing when I was about twelve, when I entered puberty.”

His cheek twitched nervously, and he walked slowly around her. She felt him gingerly touch her wings where they grew from her shoulder blades. “Holy God,” he said in disbelief. “They are real.”

He faced her again, looking completely bewildered. “How is this possible?” he asked. “Are you a freak or what?”

That hurt. She shrugged. “Or what,” she tried to joke.

Jimmy didn’t laugh. “I can’t believe this. You’ve hidden this from me for years. How is it possible? When I hold you, when we make love, you’re completely normal.”

She sighed. Her secret had been such a burden. It was a great relief to tell him.

“If I concentrate,” she said, “close my eyes and imagine my wings growing, then they do. It just takes a minute, and the same time to make them disappear.” She didn’t mention they were too weak for her to fly.

His disbelief changed to something else. Now he looked disgusted. “It’s sickening and wrong. And you had no right to keep this from me.”

Sickening and wrong? Who was he to talk? She looked at his eyes. The right one was brown; the left one, green. Like mismatched marbles, they belonged in different faces.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

He rubbed his brow. Would he shout his disgust and leave her? She’d always been afraid of that. Or perhaps he’d expose her difference to the world. If so, she might learn if there were others like her, though that would involve huge dangers.

“I think it’s a genetic thing,” she said. “I might be a mutation.”

Jimmy didn’t respond. He was staring at the living room drapes.

“That’s why you close them in the daytime, isn’t it?” he asked. “I’ve wondered why you do it.” He turned to gaze at her. “When I’m at work, you draw the drapes so you can spread your wings. And sometimes, you forget to part them again.”

“Jimmy,” she asked hesitantly, “what are we—what are you—going to do?”

“I don’t know yet.” He stared at her. “Does Cassie—?”

“No.” She shook her head. “She has no idea.” And I have no idea if she will grow up to be like me.

“Keep it that way.” He opened the door to leave. “I never want to see those things again. Understand? I don’t want you to do it even when I’m at work.”

She nodded, feeling grateful. “Yes, Jimmy. Whatever you say.”

“And I never want it mentioned again either. All right? I want you to promise we’ll lead a perfectly normal, ordinary life.”

She smiled, her cheeks wet. “I promise.”

He spun on his heels and left, closing the door firmly behind him as if to shut reality in—or out.

Ariel sighed with relief and went into the bedroom where she stood before a mirror. Though her golden wings were lovely, she was no angel, and they carried a deadly danger. She must not take chances again.

As she looked at herself, an eye opened in the middle of her forehead and began to grow. Like her other eyes, it was a soft blue with silver specks, suggesting distant skies and far-off places. Unlike the other eyes, lately it had changed and given her half-glimpsed visions inside herself, a growing insight and knowledge she could not yet put into words.

Remembering her husband’s disgust, Ariel thought for the first time of really letting her hair down and revealing herself to the world. All her years of fearful secrecy could be negated in a moment.

Maybe it was a good thing Jimmy had finally discovered her secret. It could provide the motivation she needed. Lord knows, she was tired of concealing the truth, of hiding her true nature behind the domestic security of a housewife’s smile. It would be such a relief to spread her wings and reveal her essence, to come out of the safe closet and into the light. Who knows; perhaps she could even discover her destiny, what she was ultimately meant to be, and find if there were other sisters like her who shared her secret.

But did she have the courage to break her promise to Jimmy, defy his wishes, and let the world see her as she actually was, to fight back against the tyranny of uniformity? If she did, she would have to risk everything, not only her marriage but her role as a mother. Was it right even to think of taking such an irreversible step?

In the mirror, her third eye gazed back at her, probing her soul. She searched her reflection and waited until at last she had her answer.

John, a retired English professor, has published 300 stories in Whitley Strieber’s Aliens, Galaxy, Weird Tales, The Age of Wonders, etc. He’s published twenty books, including SF novels such as Beyond Those Distant Stars and Speaker of the Shakk (Mundania Press); Alien Dreams and A Senseless Act of Beauty (Crossroad Press); and Books I and II of the Inspector of the Cross series (MuseItUp Publishing). Read more about John on his website, his blog, and his Amazon Author Page. His books are available at Amazon and other vendors.

]]>http://metromoms.net/2014/05/11/a-perfectly-normal-ordinary-life-by-john-b-rosenman/feed/4http://metromoms.net/2014/05/11/a-perfectly-normal-ordinary-life-by-john-b-rosenman/“Pink Tiles” by D. Kirkhttp://feedproxy.google.com/~r/MetroFiction/~3/CIE3gAnt-nY/
http://metromoms.net/2014/04/27/pink-tiles-by-d-kirk/#commentsSun, 27 Apr 2014 12:00:47 +0000http://metromoms.net/?p=12699We’d like to present a new Feature Story here at Metro Fiction. Please check the Metro Fiction page for more information about us. A woman regrets not remodeling her bathroom sooner. Please enjoy our Feature Story: “Pink Tiles” by D. Kirk My bathtub’s small for how many times a week I use it. Sometimes I […]

]]>We’d like to present a new Feature Story here at Metro Fiction. Please check the Metro Fiction page for more information about us.

A woman regrets not remodeling her bathroom sooner.

Please enjoy our Feature Story: “Pink Tiles” by D. Kirk

My bathtub’s small for how many times a week I use it. Sometimes I add bubbles, sometimes lavender oil to make it feel special, a little treat. I usually read while I’m in there too, smutty stuff with tight bodices and bulging thigh muscles. They make me laugh and cry and feel which to be quite honest, is a little treat too.

When I was puking all last summer and hanging onto the sides of the ancient toilet, I’d stare at the dingy tiles on the floor with the cracked grout lines and stained caulk and wonder, “why the hell have I never redone this bathroom?” I mean I redid the fireplace mantle when I first bought the place ten years ago. Then there was the kitchen remodel which now has walnut cabinets and beautiful salt and pepper countertop. For some reason, the bathroom never got done.

The tub matches the toilet, pink from the fifties. It’s shallow but long enough for my tiny frame. My new boobs poke up above the water, which I don’t really mind. I’m still shocked by these puppies, shocked that my forty year old body is now driving through life with two melons bigger than I had in high school. A silver lining in an otherwise messed up couple of years.

If I had to do it all over again, yes this bathroom would have been remodeled before. I would have
made the tiles on the floor a warm color, something soothing like cinnamon or pumpkin. Something I
could’ve laid my head down on and NOT seen how dirty the floor was. I’d grout in a dark color,
comforting like the color of chocolate drizzled over cheesecake.

Ironic after a life filled with Weight Watchers and lowfat cookies, I was told I could eat as much cheesecake as I wanted. Chocolate cheesecake too, maybe stuffed inside of a cherry pie baked into a huge cake drizzled with more chocolate. Because why not?

Nobody was watching. Well except my doctors who had also prescribed “marijuana” so I could get the food down.

“Carol, you need to up your calories, gain some weight back. You need your strength.”

They were right. None of my clothes fit anymore. I’d lost my hips, my tits, my ass, my curves, my uterus but not my life. Aren’t I lucky? Which is why I got the melon sized new ones. I think my reasoning was if my boobs were so big, nobody would notice that I’m too young to be hard of hearing now. More side effects or they should be called managed effects. Because now I’ve got a whole damn list of things to manage for the rest of my life. Yeah, super lucky.

If I did it all over again, I think I’d get a pedestal sink. Something strong, something that could hold my body up if I ever had to limp, drag or crawl out of the bathroom again. But maybe I should get something strong enough to hold my body up in case I make that online dating ad I’ve been thinking about for six months? Maybe I’ll find somebody that can take showers with me and we could christen my new sink while playing damsel in distress instead of remembering the old memories of a damsel in distress.

I already had it written. It was just sitting there on my computer.

Buxom tart searching for her develish rake. Must have a life worth living, a zeal for breathing and a desire to keep going forward.

If I would have known back then, what I know now, I would have posted it before the tumor. Before
the day I had to tell my one friend in the world, my elderly neighbor, it was back. Before the day I remembered my mother in the hospital, withering away herself. Before the day my long dirty blond
curls fell out and I looked up wigs online.

Maybe if I’d posted that ad and had a date and then a lover and maybe a husband, this bathroom
would have been remodeled before I slept on the floor almost every night. Maybe he could have carried me to bed and back to the bathroom when my muscles ached and wouldn’t move MY withering
limbs.

Maybe he would’ve liked my egg shaped head. Maybe he would have shaved his own in solidarity
and hung blankets on the windows to shield my eyes from the sunlight. Maybe he would have packed
me a bowl with hands that weren’t shaking, hoping it would soothe the nausea long enough that I could suck down some broth for the day. Maybe.

The light fixture is ancient too. Tarnished brass surrounded by curly glass like a grandmother’s doily. That needs to go too. I’ll get a new one with softer lights to hide the new lines around my mouth. Forty watts might dull the scars away. Still pink like the tiles.

Yes, a new light.

That’s what I’ll start with.

It’ll set the scene for my new bathroom in warm colors like the low autumn sun I now welcome
through my windows. I’ll need a new mirror too, uncracked that will reflect my new pixie cut I’ll blow dry into place. Then I’ll pour on a tight bodiced dress, way too revealing for a woman my age, and head out on that date with that develish rake.

D. Kirk spends her winters with her three good looking sons and husband, across borders where it’s
warmer with beaches and shrimp tacos. When not traveling, she uses Portland, Oregon as a home base
and writes little diddies to avoid running her real estate companies. Pink Tiles is her second published short story and was inspired by a hilarious late night conversation with an Australian breast cancer survivor. Rum may or may not have been involved.